


Tales from Edgewater

by fletchquest



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Inspired by Stranger Things, Multi, Supernatural AU - Freeform, segmented, unfinished intros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletchquest/pseuds/fletchquest
Summary: A collection of unfinished works for a small-town supernatural Overwatch AU. If you like works such as Welcome to Night Vale, Gravity Falls and Stranger Things, this'll probably be up your alley.





	1. Prologue/Ana's Place

The police cruiser parked at the end of the gravel driveway had out-of-state plates. Rust was slowly beginning to choke out the dull brown and cream-colored paint job, emblazoned with 'San Miguel County Sheriff' on its doors, just as it had overtaken the fender and the exhaust pipe underneath the husk of the car. Its owner was nowhere to be found--tucked away behind the flowered curtains of the home at the end of the makeshift driveway, in a mobile home that hadn't been mobile in many-a-year. Moss had seized the brick stilts it rest on and climbed up the scratched vinyl siding. The wooden steps leading up to the front door splintered in a million different directions. It wasn't as though the home's current tenant got out much, though. Quite the opposite--she quite liked it when the only people disturbing her were invited guests.

"More tea, Jesse?"

The clink of ceramic brought the man standing anxiously near the window back to his senses, a broad hand mere inches from tugging back the pale pink curtains before it retreated away to rest on his belt buckle. An old woman--Ana Amari, as she was known--with ashen brown skin and hair drawn back in a headscarf stood on the other side of the small table with two empty teacups clutched between her wiry fingers.

Her smile created ripples on the pool of her face--wrinkles that accentuated every little turn of her lip as she hooked the cup handles over her fingers. A faded tattoo of the eye of Horus had bled into the dark wrinkles under her left eye, a soft green-gray color and a testament to how long the woman had been around. Her right eye was covered by an eyepatch--another sort of testament that many people were too afraid to see. Her face was the kind that rekindled the belief that witches still existed. It was, as she had sagely told Jesse over finger sandwiches, "a face that could take no more shit".

Jesse knew this--he'd gotten a phone-in complaint from a teenager's mother that Ana had shouted some sort of curse in Arabic at her child after he'd pissed on her peony bushes.

"I told him that his scrotum would be pierced by a goat," Ana had explained candidly, leaning casually against the frame of her front door once Jesse had been sent out to investigate. "Not that anyone is keeping track."

And she had been right. No one kept track, because Jesse had never bothered to document every single outcry against Ana Amari in Edgewater. They both preferred it that way--it saved Jesse filing work, and it prevented Ana from having any kind of reputation outside of whispers and gossip. 

"I can always make another pot, if you'd like--but if I didn't know any better, I'd say you want to leave early today." Ana never hesitated to cut through the quiet. 

"Been getting noise complaints about the radio tower again. Don't mean nothin' by it, ma'am," the man answered. Jesse was a man creeping towards his 40s--though he'd hurried himself along with his narrow, dark eyes outlined with creases and messily-kept facial hair. The modest, brown uniform he wore was paired with a broken-in sheriff's hat that hung off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He turned his attention away from his host once more, pulling aside the curtains turned brittle with age. "Can barely find a frequency on the police scanner that the station can use anymore."

"The radios have always been full of static. I don't see why people are beginning to complain now." Ana joined him at the window, passing him a delicate porcelain teacup. It was dwarfed in his bearish hand, thick with hairy knuckles.

"Slow week, I reckon," he replied, turning his face away from the window as he wrestled a finger in to hook around the small handle of the cup. His free hand was shoved into his pocket, mingling with a smushed carton of cigarettes and the keys to the police cruiser. "Folks in need of an excuse to talk 'bout something besides the weather." Jesse raised the cup to his lips for a tentative sip. Though the tea was too hot to gulp down, he could smell the aromatic herbs in Ana's brew. She had come from too far away to drink bad tea, she'd told him. When she didn't smell like mothballs, she smelled like an exotic marketplace full of spices and smoke. Other times, just air freshener. It depended on if she was in a mysterious mood, or a cleaning one.


	2. Into the Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving a call about nighttime activity at Zenyatta's curio shop, Jesse goes to investigate.

"So kind of you to come out to the shop so late, sheriff-- and on such short notice, too." Zenyatta's frigid fingers grazed Jesse's neck as he took the officer's coat in the doorway, wandering off to hang it up. Jesse occupied himself with scraping the snow off of his boots, tapping them off on the door frame before he entered The Iris more fully.

"S'what happens when you're a police station of one," he chuckled tiredly, sealing both of them in Zenyatta's shop as he tugged the door firmly shut. The 'closed' sign clattered against the window, swinging to stillness once more. "Gotta say, this is the kind of night that I'm grateful about not being in my apartment for. Got too many cracks in the windows for heat to be any use." 

Jesse almost stepped onto the scuffed wooden floor of the shop, but was stopped by a hand that wordlessly pointed to his still-wet shoes. Obliging the smaller man, the sheriff kicked off his boots and set them against the wall where his bomber coat was still hanging before following him deeper into the shop. The trays of polished stones, racks of mala beads and containers of incense sat still, barely disturbed as the two moved past where most shoppers could go and into Zenyatta's living space.

 

"Do you frighten easily, sheriff?" Zenyatta inquired, casting him a look that seemed to search him up and down for answers. "...No," he concluded before Jesse could get a word in. "I know you don't. Are you a very spiritual person, though?"

"Dunno if I'm allowed to say that after summa the things I've seen, but..." Jesse waggled his hand loosely at his waist, not willing to commit to anything. "If the shoe fits?"

"I didn't mean to ask if you believed in god or not, though that's always something good to take into account." Zenyatta's hand came to rest on one part of the beaded curtains separating the back of the shop from his home, thumb and forefinger rubbing at one of the glittery beads anxiously. "I mean, do you believe in ghosts?"

Jesse attempted to peer past the curtains, before casting a skeptical glance back at the younger man. "The way you're talkin', I'm startin' to think I should."

"Certainly, it wouldn't hurt." Zenyatta concluded, pulling the curtains back. "Or in the very least, keep an open mind."


	3. Fork's Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick peek at the weird diner trying to stay afloat.

Forks Bay Eatery opened every morning at 6 AM, on the dot. The owner, an old Italian man who'd lived in the area longer than almost anyone, would flip his sign to 'open' and begin brewing coffee. It smelled more enticing than it actually tasted, but it was powerful enough to lure Jesse in for breakfast from time to time. The dock that led up to the stilt-suspended diner would occasionally snap a plank under someone's foot, resulting in a rolled ankle or a brush with the murky water below. The pier was a xylophone of boards of various colors, some of freshly-cut green pine and others gray and crumbling with their age. Jesse was always mindful of his feet when he approached.

Inside, there were homemade pies on display in an old-fashioned, boiled yolk-yellow rotating display case, sticky stools at the counter, and a bathroom that was beginning to accrue its own micro-colony of bacteria the longer it went untouched by *anyone* in the restaurant, patron or otherwise. The ketchup and mustard bottles always had a certain tacky feeling to them, and it took a little effort to pull your fingers off of them when you wanted condiments. The least that people asked of the staff in the diner was that the plates and forks were clean--and they were, thankfully. In exchange, the diner saw at least a few guaranteed customers a day to keep the establishment afloat, both financially and literally. 

Jesse sat at the counter, the watch on his wrist chirping anxiously as the hour changed to 9 AM. His barely-touched coffee had grown stone-cold about 15 minutes ago, and no one had wandered his way to offer to top it off or to take the rest of his order. While he waited, both elbows resting on the counter, he glanced over an old newspaper from a few days ago to entertain himself and considered all of the newsworthy stories that Edgewater would have--if only they had a newspaper to themselves. In all fairness, though, the stories that came out of town would make it seem more like a tabloid rag than anything. A yawn escaped the sheriff, causing his lip to curl over one of the fangs normally hidden in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Jesse's a werewolf. I'm not creative.


End file.
